


The Redacted Curse

by orphan_account



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Norse Religion & Lore
Genre: Aedra, Almost All Characters are OC, Archaeology, Character Death, Daedra, Daedric Prince, Daedric Princes, Dunmer - Freeform, F/M, Fate, Gen, Imperials, Lore-breaking, Mora doesn't talk too slow, NORDS - Freeform, Original Character Death(s), The Redacted Curse, Windhelm, Winterhold, Yngol's Barrow, grave robbing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-12-20 15:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11923575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: What we know of the Curse can't even fit one paper.We don't know what it is.We don't know how it works, what it does, and how to reverse it.All we do know is that It's been in my family for ages.It activates randomly. some might not even get it at all. but once it does...you have exactly 128 days until you die.





	1. Prologue: Then

**Then**

It was a misty night, so misty, in fact, that Arvask did not have a clue about what surrounded him.

Actually, that was a lie.

Arvask did have a perfect understanding of where he was. One of the first things the Old Master had taught him was to feel his surroundings without the use of his senses. And that, perhaps, was the one and only reasons he hadn’t died tonight.

Because, not only was it misty, it was also dark, and the wind blew so hard that Kyne might have carried her child had he not been wearing an armor as heavy as he was.

The Armor, of course, a signature piece of equipment for people of…well… his kind, was of the bones of his foes. Dragons.

The recipe for forging this armor was a secret. one of the most sacred of the order that had started using it. of course, even if people _could_ know how to forge an armor as magnificent as his, most people didn’t stay long enough in a battle against a Dragon to be able to take his bones as War-loot.

Arvask finally stopped, on the top of a hill close to The Dragon-Hill.

He knew his fellow man would wait for him there.

Of course.

He’d asked him to do so.

But the hill was vacant.

Arvask sighed.

The Guide had better show up. the Totems knew there wasn’t much of a chance for them if he wasn’t to join them.

He finally noticed a rock, big enough and stable enough for him to sit on. Had it not been misty, he could have enjoyed a nice view of the Hill, and the tundra around it.

Of course, had it not been misty, the Dragons might have noticed him. still they could. He smelled.

He hadn’t had the chance. He had been in a battle right before he’d traveled here. and he’s chosen here because it was, relatively, close to the borders of the Heartland.

Dragons didn’t fly down to the Heartland; they didn’t need to. The mountains blocked their favorite prey from getting there, and most Atmorans struggled here, where it was cold and nice. Who knew what they’d face in a place that didn’t even have snow?

The Guide was still away. Arvask decided to take a look around. the river below looked like a nice play to make a home someday. Though he doubted they could.

At least unless the Dragons were somehow put out of the equation. And that would be impossible if the Guide didn’t show up.

“Arvask” he heard from behind him, on the last steps of the slope leading to the hill. The voice had a twisted tone that belonged to no Atmoran. Or Elf.

It was the Guide.

A Tall man. even for an Atmoran like him. square shoulders, flat chest, and long neck. He might have looked terrifying in an Armor. He’d probably scare everyone away had he showed up in one of their armors, brandishing a sword or the gods as his weapon.

But alas, he wore robes. A dark shroud with a sickly green hue, with dragon horns sticking out from his armguards and shoulder pads.

He had a mask. One with eight tentacles, and two eye-spots that looked at him unblinkingly.

Personally, Arvask found it unsettling.

But, for one of the Guide’s profession, it was uniform.

You see, The Guide was a Priest. He was always introduced as Miraak, the Allegiance-Guide, and was known to be the greatest God-wielder amongst the Priests, who were gifted by the Dragons to wield The Gods, and things beyond.

“Allegiance-Guide.” Arvask said, as he rose to his feet, putting his Longsword on his back. “I appreciate you coming here.” he said, as he took a step forward. “We all- “

The Guide sighed, as he pulled away his mask.

Arvask’s eyes widened. No priest had ever pulled off his mask in front of a human being. It was against the rules.

But The Guide was no mere man.

Well. by the looks he was. He had no beard, but his balding white hair reached his neck now that the mask didn’t cover it. the man with an unflinching glare looked at his fellow Atmoran, and said with a much, much more normal tone, “ _what_ do you want from me, Arvask?”

Arvask’s shoulders dropped.

He knew this tone.

And he knew how this was going to go, even before it’d happened.

“What I’ve always told everyone, Guide.” He said, almost desperately, “To beg you to join us. Help us put an end to the Dragons once and for all.”

“put an _end_ to the Dragons?” The Priest guffawed, “even a warrior like you should know better than to think this anything more than a mere wish, Arvask! The Dragons will burn us all to the ground if we oppose them.”

“I’ve spilled the blood of their kind before.” Arvask said, pointing it out as he nodded down at his own armor, “They’re not unbeatable. They’re _easy_ to kill, especially for someone like you!”

The Priest chuckled. “You’ve _never_ faced anyone quite as magnificent as the dragon you’re planning to overthrow, Arvask.” He explained. “I have a house. I have a _home_ to take care of. And I will not let it burn to cinders for the follies of mere men.”

Arvask sighed. “So, you would fight Dragons If they’d attacked your home?”

“The Dragons would _never_ ” The Priest chuckled, “Attack Raven’s Peninsula. Trust me on that. We have a mutual agreement.”

Arvask took a deep breath.

Arrogance was another uniform trait of all priests. He’d never been on the painful end of any Priest’s blade or god-power, but his comrades who _had_ all reported that such arrogance was in no way unfounded. Gods, By the Bear, Feldir swore that the Priest Otar had one _painful_ jab, and that he was the best master of Flyting he’d ever seen.

This Arrogance may have been completely justified, but by the Moth, it was irritating.

Over the years, Arvask would blame himself for many things. The death of his dear Wife, children and then the catastrophe that was First Battle with the Snow-elf Refuges in the Raven’s Tomb (as it came to be known, years later) Were some that could come to mind. But, the unintentional words he spoke next were some that would haunt him for many years.

“Bugger the Raven’s Peninsula!” He’d said, in a look of utmost anger, righteous to himself but… probably not to the Guide, “Your own Kinsmen are dying left, right, and Center. Have you _no_ sense of Empathy?”

“If” The Guide said, his tone frosty, now quite in character for the heartless priest of The Peninsula, “The dragons attack my home, I will defend it. but I will _not_ put my people into a hopeless cause like yours.” He sneered, before putting on his mask again, the Twisted voice of the mask of Miraak said “Know this. I will _never_ lift a finger to help you in a fight that is not mine.”

Arvask had had enough.

He narrowed his look, drawing the longsword and holding it with both hands, finally making a move, “If you’re not with us, you’re against Keizaal!”

The Atmoran Priest chuckled. “You do not exist in the same realm that I make feuds in.”  but he still drew his own sword in turn, readying his off-hand in the Flames of Gods.

“But” he said, “I will not let you reach that realm.” And then Sparks flew.

Any other foe, That God-power probably would smite. Arvask was, however, a dragon fighter. Fending off, and blocking, God-power was the first thing he’d learned.

So, he swung his sword, sending off the incoming Sparks elsewhere, as he slowly advanced towards his foe, who he had at a disadvantage.

“You force me to act against my will.” He Warned, and finally, he roared.

His opponent fell back. Not quite as strongly as Arvask had hoped, but still enough to make a point.

“You Fool!” he hissed, forcing himself on his legs, ready for combat again, “What have you done!”

“Gift of The Old Master!” Arvask boasted, having a little feeling that this was not _exactly_ what he’d thought the resulting expressions be. “I have the powers of a dragon now!”

“You _fool_.” The Priest said, tone a little fearful. “You’ve doomed us both.”

And he realized almost at the same time, the horrifying truth dawned on him He _indeed_ had.

A distant shriek replied him from the Dragon-Hill.

**End of Prologue**


	2. Now

**Now**

**Windhelm**

Windhelm is a big city, it’s almost never quiet. The People are often working, the Market’s District is always booming with people.

Some Are there to sell the result of their labor from their craft, their farms or the wild. The others to buy the results of said labor. The District is located exactly in front of the Only Smithy and the only Alchemy Houses of the city, and perhaps the entire hold.

A Stone’s throw away from there is the Great Gate of the City, one of the few things predating the Sack of Windhelm back in the Second era, and, probably, one of the three oldest Still-used Human-built structures in the Entire Province of Skyrim.

And in front of that Gate is One of the Two Taverns in the City, which constitutes as the Only Inn as well, since the other Tavern is not quite as popular, or welcoming.

The Tavern is called Candlehearth hall. Supposedly, because about two centuries ago the ancestor of the woman currently owning the Inn lit a candle that was still aflame, even today. Of course, there’s no way of truly knowing whether this is true or not, and most believe it.

If you walk inside the Inn, from the front doors that are right in front of the Great Gate of Windhelm, You’ll meet the Innkeeper, an old lady named Elda Early-Dawn, behind the counter of the bar, with an armada of drinks by her side, and more in the cellar behind her.

She probably won’t greet you well. in fact, if you’re not a nord she’ll be a bit cold to you. might refuse service (or, well, more accurately offer inadequate service with a frown and an overpriced bill). Gods forbid if you’re a dunmer (Though, then again, what you’re doing in Windhelm if you’re a dunmer is another question) she might face you with outright hostility. And trust me on this, Nordic Women Are Scary when Hostile.

But at any rate, I wasn’t here for a drink. This was a legitimate business transaction.

Well.

I was in a private room, rent for exactly five hours, and waiting to see if I could convince the man I needed for my job.

“You rent this room.” Said The Man, a Brutish Nord in Heavy Armor, a Gigantic Sword on his Back, as he walked inside, having been informed by Elda that he had a possible Client. “That means you mean business. With me.”

“Aye” I replied. “I need your help.”

“That’ll cost money. But first… let’s talk.” He said, as he looked at me, motioning me to sit on the single chair in said room.

I sat.

“Good. Now. What devilry do you want to dabble in?” the Man said, straightforward, not letting me butter him up before explaining.

I sighed. “I’m going Grave Robbing. And I can’t go alone, as seen for obvious reasons.”

“A Grave? You going into one of the Barrows?” He scoffed, “You’d need a squad for that kind of job.”

I chuckled.

That had been my first idea too. But to be frank I highly doubt that an Army will do what I want to do. No. One man is the most ideal for me. especially one as skilled as Stenvar, the best Bounty Hunter in Windhelm.

“No. My expedition requires a minimal level of discretion. One that a squadron of Mercenaries fail to maintain.” I explained, “And, frankly, reaching this ruin is more important for me than what’s inside it.”

Actually, that was a lie.

But not one the Mercenary needed to know.

“Hmmm…” he pondered, deep in thought, “So, you’re going to need me to do the job of a party. That’ll cost you extra.”

I chuckled, “If I find what I think, you’re not going to need me to pay you, trust me.”

He growled. “And if we _don’t_?” and took a step forward in a show of dominance.

Honestly I’d chuckle if it wasn’t a dumb thing to do.

“Then,” I said, forcing some joviality in my tone. “I’ll pay you when we’re back in Windhelm.”

He rose, then. “I’m going to need you to sign something for me then.”

“Ah, and why is that? Do you not trust me?” I smirked, “is it the red eyes?”

I’m not full-bred Nordic. Well, not really. Actually I’m a human. But that one-thirty second Dunmeri blood was so strong, somehow, that it gave me a darker tone of skin. Strong enough, in fact, that my eyes have been red.

At least, that’s what my parents told me when I was a kid and cared about a matter as trivial as this.

And I know, full well, that as a Mercenary, Stenvar doesn’t _get_ to have any personal discriminations based on race or gender.

“Listen to me right here, you little Niding,” shook his head, almost frustrated and ready to say something he wouldn’t regret, “If you go on my nerves like this, I’m leaving you whenever and wherever I damn well please.” he cheered up, “Which also is in the contract you’re supposed to sign. I’ll leave you to it.”

And so he did, dropping a set of papers on the table and starting to leave, “I’m on the second floor. Give me the signed paper and I’ll come with.”

* * *

**Winterhold**

“Remind me again” said the Mercenary, in his set of armor, wearing a thick cloak of Fur and shivering, “Why the hell does your little grave-robbing trip lead us to Winterhold.”

“Like I said, Stenvar” I sighed, “There is _one_ thing that we need to have, _before_ we go into the Ruin, and it’s the Claw.”

“And the Claw to the Most Fabled Barrow in all Skyrim, its location lost to time… is in this dump?”

Well. it’s true.

Winterhold _was_ a dump.

Of the Magnificent Winterhold of old only two relics remained. The College and the Statue of Azura. the rest had been lost to the ages. There were only three buildings in the entire quote-unquote city. And The Woman with the Claw was standing out of one of them, arguing with someone else.

“We _need_ coin, Ranmir!” The woman was saying, snapping in anger at the other, a man with a posture so unbalanced he might as well had been drunk. “And you’re not bringing any!”

“and what’ya haff me do woman?” ‘Ranmir’ said, words connecting to each other poorly, “Join th’College? Prance about casting spells all day?” he turned, and began walking towards the building in front of them. named ‘Frozen Hearth’.

“Don’t you walk away from me, Ranmir!” The Lady snapped, “Where do you think _you’re_ going?”

“To the Inn for a drink.” The man said, finally showing some of his depression, “Where else _could_ I go in this gods forsaken town?”

“What? you think that’ll solve our problems?”

“Probably not” he shrugged, “But it’s worth a try.”

I looked at Stenvar, as the both of us looked at the spectacle.

“See that woman?” I said, not pointing at her. “She’s Birma. A small-time Saleswoman in this frozen end of the World. Has a drunk brother –as you just saw-“ I smiled, “ _and_ also the thing we’re looking for.”

“What? The Claw?”

I nodded. “Yes. The Claw.”

* * *

“I have to ask” I said, as Stenvar had already left to the Inn for a drink, “What’s the story of that claw? On the Shelf?”

Birma looked at me with a weary stare, “Just the relic of the worst trade of my life, what else?”

“Hmmm?” I raised an eyebrow, “Do tell!”

“It was just stupid of me, Aye? Some Adventurer came here a few years ago, said he had the final key to opening the Most Fabled Barrow in all Skyrim, but not the skill or energy to do so. He said some line about thus claw thing and Yngol’s Barrow. Said it was worth more than its weight in gold!” she sighed. “gods. What was I _thinking_? Even if he wasn’t some drunkard braggart like half the adventurers in this gods forsaken land, how the hell am _I_ going to be entering a ruin filled with gods know what?”

She sighed.

I would’ve smirked. If it wasn’t rude.

“well, then maybe I can buy it from you.” I said, looking at the Claw. It _was_ the real deal. The carvings, the color, all matched the tomes I’d read. The Dragon’s Claw.

“Buy it from me?” The Woman asked, looking thoughtful.

Sell the relic of her failed adventuring life and be a few coins richer for it? coins that probably will be used by that Drunkard for some more mead? Or Stick to the relics of the past?

She sighed. “Alright. Give me fifty Septims, and it’s your problem!” I handed over a small pouch of golden coins, and took the claw gingerly, putting it in a small satchel on my back.

“here you go” she said, “You die from this, it’s not my fault, okay?” she warned, and I nodded, “But… if it does end up worth something lemme know, will ya?”

I sighed.

And nodded.

Turned to open the door, when Stenvar opened it from the other side. “Your brother won’t cause any problems for you again.” he said, a look of warning on his face. “If he _ever_ starts wasting your coins on drinks again…tell him to come see me. I could teach him a thing or two.”

* * *

We stopped in front of the Strange Altar that marked the opening to the Barrow.

Yngol and the Sea-Ghosts.

If the Legend was true, of course, There _shouldn’t have been_ a barrow here. Yngol _had_ been lost to the sea’s vengeance after all.

But alas. Skyrim defies logic. Always has, always will.

I took a deep breath, and then looked at the Brute behind me.

“Well?” I asked, “What are we waiting for? Let’s go in!”

And that was exactly what we did.


	3. Now

**Now**

**Yngol’s Barrow**

When we finally walked out of the Chasm, we were in an Ice Tunnel. Unwelcome, but not unexpected. This was, after all, Winterhold. The Entire Hold was famous for its Icy…well, Everything.

But, I have to admit, even I found it not impressive.

Stenvar, even less.

“This… is the Tomb of Yngol Elfsbane?” he asked, with a look of disgust in his eyes, “An Icy Tunnel?”

“Ah, worry not.” I smiled, “we have yet to reach the Barrow Proper. You’ll see some Nordic architecture soon.”

And, of course, soon enough, The Ice started to get thin enough that we could make out the outlines of a Nordic Tomb, like any that would appear in Skyrim.

Looks Decrepit, almost rotten. As if it’d fall down by one simple touch. And yet, stronger than what people give it credit for.

The wood holding the tunnel together had, after all, held for more than an era.

We walked inside the mix of Ice and Rotten bricks for hours, until we finally found the first sign of the fact we were on the right path.

A Tomb.

However, it was empty.

The Fallen Corpse, presumably from that tomb, was around, a few steps away.

“Draugr” Stenvar said, I nodded in confirmation. I doubt he saw it, but I don’t care. “He’s down, though” I said, pointing it out, “And doesn’t seem to have any companions here. be on your guard.”

The Gruff Brute grunted in acceptance, and we moved forward, until we reached the first Hall.

The Only arch that hinted at the way we should be going was blocked by a falling gate.

A fairly popular puzzle inside a Nordic Barrow. My ancestors had a sense of humor. At least that’s what I hope. Because most of these traps are stuff that babes can solve, and I refuse to believe my ancestors thought these were _smart_ traps.

Then again, a Person was fallen dead, right in front of the bloody gate.

“A dead person” I pointed out, “any idea about who he is?”

Stenvar looked at the corpse, then made a sound of pondering. “Hmmm… stature is too posh to be a native. Or at least a commoner. Good clothes, well maintained, and of course, he doesn’t have the gruff look of a worker.” He explained, then continued “and he’s also an Altmer. My guess would be a rich kid with too much time on his hand, and a deadly hobby” he looked at me meaningfully. I rolled my eyes.

“Well… does he have anything of worth on him?” I said, “Anything to hint of how to solve this bloody puzzle?”

Stenvar looked over. “A brief imperial book on Skyrim… and a bunch of notes in a journal.” He handed over the journal to me, and said “I’m taking everything else he has”

I rolled my eyes, and opened the book.

_“What a peculiar place the barrow turned out to be. I hadn't explored for very long before reaching this elaborate room and gate locking me from going further into the crypt._

_I confess it - I'm relieved! This place puts the fear of_ _Oblivion_ _into me. There are some carvings in this room. I'll attempt to transcribe them for the_ _College_ _so I have something to show for this effort._

_All was so in_ _Atmora_

_land of truth and our home_

_Man in his throne,_

_so should he be_

_Whale in the sea,_

_so should he be_

_Eagle in Sun's Sky,_

_so should he be_

_Snake in the weed_

_so should he be_

_Sorrow! For the_ _Sea-Ghosts_ _took_ _Yngol_

_Prize Brother of Sail from Atmora's Fleet_

_And none on land_

_nor sky, nor sea_

_would ever again_

_be as should be_

_Fascinating, these ancient_ _Nords_ _. I wonder what other secrets are hidden here? Surely there can't be harm in trying to go a little further, and there is a lever here which must open the gate beyond.”_

I smirked. And looked up. “Looks like you were right on most things. He _was_ rich, and he _did_ end up dying here out of stupidity. But he’s not a kid. He’s from the College. My guess is the College of Whispers. Down in the Heartland.”

“Do I look like I _care_?” Stenvar huffed, “Do you know how to open this door or not?”

I smiled. “Let’s take a look. Doesn’t seem to be too hard.”

The first one was on the right side of the room. Next to an empty Throne, there was a small Alcove. It had water from it. fresh water, probably from the rain last week. And I had a feeling this wasn’t from the sting of time.

No. this was by design.

I smiled. ‘Whale in the Sea, So he should be’

And pointed to Stenvar. “I need you to do some dirty work for me.” he turned. “What?” he asked.

“Twist this pillar. There should be a carving of a Whale when you’re done.”

On the opposite, there were too alcoves, each with one pillar similar to the one I’d just had fixed.

One of the two Alcoves was brighter. Unexpectedly brighter. Apparently, it was sunny outside.

‘Eagle in Sun’s Sky, So he should be’

And the Other, of course, had some weed grown out of it.

‘Snake in the weed. So he should be.’

Ysgramor had _not_ spared any lazywork for his Son’s tomb.

Once the three Pillars were twisted into the right position, I walked to the Lever in the room, next to where the Altmer had fell.

“Are you sure this will work?”

I sighed. “One way to find out.” And pulled the lever.

Thank the totems. It worked.

* * *

“Now what?” Stenvar asked me, a few small, puzzle-less halls later. “We’ve been in this ruin for hours. And _nothing_ to show for it. is there any sort of treasure in this dump at _all_?”

I sighed. “Stenvar. I haven’t traveled into this ruin any more than you have. And I’m a normal nord, not a Seer. We’ll discover anything this place has _together_.”

He sighed. “But _what_ is it we’ll discover?”

I looked at him with a deadpan.

He shut up.

We started moving again.

Sometime later, we reached a bridge. And I mean _literal_ bridge. There was water below it. thankfully said water wasn’t infested with Slaughterfish. Or … to be honest any kind of fish.

“a Hundred septims there’s something down there that might make some money for us.” Stenvar said. And looked at me pointedly.

I sighed, and prepared to dive. Thank gods for waterproof Robes.

And of course, right under the bridge was a small Chest and an Urn, each holding some treasure to them. Pulling some of the stuff out of the Storages, I returned to surface.

A small fortune of gold wasted in an inn in, probably, a day. And some jewels that would be sold to then be wasted the same way.

Still. Money is never unwelcome.

Once I’d dried off, and Stenvar had carefully put the gold in a satchel on his back, so that they’d not be harmed, the two of us continued to move further in the ruin.

Passing through numerous _mysteriously deserted_ halls, I could notice Stenvar getting more and more frustrated.

By the gods, so was I.

Thankfully, I knew we weren’t that far. And of course, the blue orbs seemed to be guiding us somewhere.

“are you sure that Claw you bought from that woman is even needed?” Stenvar asked me, “Up until now, there’s been one puzzle, and that was not really anything you could stuck a claw in.”

I sighed. “Have you ever been to a tomb, Stenvar?”

“Yes. Many times.”

“Then, you probably know. Some of them have this strange door. Always three signs that can be twisted until they reach a _certain_ combination, and then opened by an object that has three talons.”

He sighed. “Yes. I _have_ in fact noticed that. But some of them do _not_ have a door like that. What if this one doesn’t?”

“Are you insuiniating that the Tomb to Ysgramor’s own Son doesn’t have state-of-the-art security? Of its time?”

“Hmpf.”

* * *

Of course, I was right.

Finally, we reached a Hall of Stories. Like I’d read in the books.

The Carving on the door was clear. For a Nordic cave.

Ships in the Sea.

Giant Storm.

A Hawk and a Snake.

Then, the same set of Ships, without the one on the front.

Then two men stand on a stone.

The Hawk weeps.

If this isn’t clear, I don’t know what is.

And of course, there was one of the doors in front of it. “See, Stenvar?” I asked the man, who didn’t seem to be interested in looking at carvings. “The Claw was needed.”

He hmpfed, and then said “Do you know how to solve it?”

I pulled the Claw out of my satchel, carefully uncovering the linen covering it and then showed it to my Brute companion. “Even _you_ should be able to solve this, my friend.” I said, and then began twisting the Door’s three levers.

And of course, then I put in the claw, and twisted it.

The Door began revolving, and then lowering to the ground.

* * *

The Final room, probably the tomb to Yngol himself, was relatively small.

It had one gigantic treasure chest in it. and a Throne, with a corpse on it.

But nothing more.

Nothing, other than a sense of doom. One that both of us felt.

“This is it?” Stenvar asked me, I nodded. And took a step forwards.

Then, the ground shook. An unearthly shriek came from the Throne, and a black shade rose from it, walking towards us menacingly.

“Peace” I said, raising my hands in a calming gesture.

The Shade, probably that of Yngol himself, didn’t calm. Poor fellow.

“We do not come to fight.”

The Shade growled again. and tehn began talking in an unearthly tongue.

“BO HET, NILAAN, AHRK FUN NIKRIF?” he said.

I looked at him. same with Stenvar.

“NIMINDOK TINVAAK” The Shade growled again “fine. I’ll speak in your tongue, Mortal” the shade said, finally in common tongue.

“What is it you want here, mortals?” he asked, as he took a step forward. I took a step back. Stenvar drew his Sword.

“We merely want your helm, Noble Atmoran” I said, respectfully. “You do not need it. We beg of you to hand it over to us.”

“My… Helm?” the Ghost asked in confusion. “You are here for my helm?” he drew his shade sword, and laughed. “Let’s test your mettles then.”

And roared.

A Blue Wave of Magicka left his body, and surged towards us. I ducked, as I wore mere cloths.

Stenvar wasn’t as lucky.

The Wave knocked him off his feet, and as he struggled to rise to his feet, The Shade attacked me

* * *

I was quicker. He was a ghost. Connected to tamriel by a magicka and magicka alone.

That, of course, was his weakness. His magicka was the only thing keeping him here, and us from that helm.

So, when the worst came to worst, I summoned the aura of Destruction, and channeled it in the form of Sparks, flying them towards the ghost.

The ghost, of course, attacked me with his sword, an attack I diverted with a jet of magickal fire, as I summoned the aura of Alteration in my offhand.

“I don’t want to fight you, Yngol Son of Ysgramor” I said, loudly, as I prepared to cast a mage armor on myself, ducking another attack. “Just give us the Helm and we will be gone.”

“NO!” the Ghost shrieked, “MY helm will not be given to an unworthy contender. Prove your worth to me, or die trying!”

I released my hold on the Aura, and encased it as an armor around me, my flesh as strong as stone as he prepared for a longer fight.

This exact moment was why I’d strung Stenvar along. He was the melee man. he’d be better in the fight. It was merely my lack of foresight that I hadn’t bought him a silver Greatsword before coming here.

As I summoned the aura of destruction in my hands, ready for another continuation of the battle, Stenvar rose to his feet, raising his sword.

“TAG!” I shouted, as I ducked.

And Stenvar came in as if an engraged Mammoth, swinging his sword widely and cutting through the shade.

The Shade let out a shriek, again, and raised his sword to parry, blocking the strong swing with one hand tucked behind his back.

The Shade shrieked, and then let out a laugh.

“You’ve proven your mettle in combat, Mortals!” he said, but neither of us sheathed weapons, the ghost continued “But that’s not enough. I need a sacrifice, and one of you will _provide_ it for me!”

Actually. Scratch that. This exact moment was why I’d strung _Stenvar_ instead of an army around.

I’d need someone dead.

And that lucky bastard was the little bitch who’d annoyed me all the way through the ruin.

So I readied the aura of Ice and Fire, and looked at the bastard.

“what in oblivion are you planning, You-“ the man’s eyes widened. “I don’t even know your name!”

I smirked. “My _name_ is Fenrir. And I am your death!”

And unleashed everything I had, depleting my magicka pool and spending half of it.

Of course, my magic didn’t disappoint.

Stenvar fell to the ground, betrayed, robbed, and murdered.

The price for the Famed Helm of Yngol.

The Shade let out a laugh, and then began disappearing. “Splendid, mortal!” he said, with a look of amusement in his glowing eyes. “You’ve provided me with a satisfactory sacrifice. I will bestow upon you my helm!”

He went to his knees, and breathed his last.

I walked over to the Chest, and opened it. a small fortune of gold, probably more if I put what STenvar had took and add it to the pile. A small novel, dating to the Second era (and I don’t have any idea how this book ended up in a tomb built and locked before the First Era) and some jewels.

And, down in the chest, beneath the entire fortune, a Helm. One that looks like the one the Shade had on his head.

I smirked, and raised the Helmet.

It was magnificently forged. Looked like anything ancient Nordic, just in a better shape than the average equipment on a Draugr. There was something engraved on it in a language I don’t recognize, and the Horns seemed as though they’d act as if a weapon all by themselves.

I put it on my head.

And MY head exploded.

Or at least, I wish that had happened.

I felt a pain in my head that was worse than the time I bit on a piece of ice on a dare. Worse than anything magic has ever done to me.

Almost as if something in my head exploded. As if a string on the tapestry of my fate had been severed.

Almost as if I had been cursed for the betrayal of a person I didn’t know.

But that would be impossible.

Right?

When I could open my eyes later, The body of Stenvar had rose, and he was looking at me with hatred.

His eyes were empty, almost glowing. His look of hatred on his face almost as if the gods themselves had raised him to kill me.

Gods.

What had I done?

Stenvar opened his mouth. “I have to thank you, mortal”

WHAT?

“You’ve given me a better body than I could hope for, in my shape! With this body I can raise my army again, and march upon the Falmer who murdered my wife and child!” he snarled, and drew his sword. “As thanks, I’ll make your death quick.”

Oh.

Just a possessed Stenvar.

I almost released my breath in relief.

Then I unleashed my now refilled magicka upon him.

“FIRE” he laughed, “Won’t have any effect on me!” he yelled as he charged, planning on cleaving me in half with one swing.

As I rolled away, I released my hold on Alteration, summoning my Mage Armor again.

“Fire may not work on you, wight!” I said, “But _Ice_ will!” and released frost upon him, encasing his legs in ice and freezing the land around him.

He still broke free. and began charging at me, though now relatively slower. slow enough, in fact, that I could grab his sword as he swung it, and summon the aura of Shock.

The Surge of Magically-induced Shock singed him, and he fell back. And gave me my opening.

I threw a rune of Ice in front of him, freezing his legs solid again, and then summoned the aura of Lightning, prepared to finally destroy him.

“NO!” He groaned, “If you strike me down, It will be the end of you!”

I didn’t know it yet. But he was right.

OF course, I didn’t care.

I raised my hands, and released the lightning.

Lightning exploded. Almost blinding me and probably throwing around everything in the room.

It was too bright to see.

I dropped on my knees, and sat for a few minutes, until my sight would return.

* * *

Finally, I rose to my legs again.

The Corpse of the Mercenary was nowhere to be found. Some of his armor and his satchels were, thought, hanging from one of the walls now.

Probably from a shockwave.

I picked the Satchel up.

And Counted.

A _lot_ of gems, some unfinished contract papers, and a lot of gold.

Enough that I’d be able to buy something for me mother before returning home.

Yes.

That would be a good idea.

I’d better hide the helmet too.

I sighed, and finally prepared to leave the tomb of Yngol.

This could end up becoming a good, at least somewhat worthy, tale for me to write or tell in a bar.

And what is better than drinking, telling stories, and having fun?

Finally, I reached a door, with the Frost of Skyrim behind it.

I’d reached the end of the tomb.

This tomb had been cleared.

And I was richer for it.

and cursed.

The Sun was bright the chill of Winterhold in the air.

The wind blowing, beautiful Icy-mountains around us.

I was back in Skyrim.


	4. Then

**Then**

**Raven’s Peninsula**

The Guide returned home, days later.

When he finally arrived home, he had to find another set of robes, and put his mask in for repairing. His friends and subordinates were ready to do that for him, which was a nice thing. Keizaal didn’t make good servants. Most of them were people of his kind and they tended to rebel… as he could see back in mainland even now.

But that was irrelevant. For all he knew, the Dragon was already in Skuldafn by now. And, while the identity of that barbarian _oaf_ was already known to the Dragons and their servants, he had a mutual deal with them. one that he feared would soon be absolved.

He shuddered, and walked to sit on his throne, deep in his temple. Pondering on the recent events.

It _was_ true, what Arvask had said. The Dragons wouldn’t just make do with human slaves. Ending worlds was their first nature.

And this was _his_ world. and it was fine. It was where he lived the vast majority of his time.

It may not be perfect, but it was his. And he would _not_ let dragons take it from him.

And he somehow doubted Dragons would just let him be in the Peninsula, now that he’d been _seen_ talking to, and even sparing, a known fugitive of their law.

He _needed_ help. He needed a way to end them quickly, without letting it reach a fight.

One of his servants walked towards him. “My Lord!”

He raised his head from his ponder, and looked at him. the elf wore a mask of his own design, a uniform for the members of Miraak’s cult. And he seemed eerily shivering.

“What is it, my friend?” Miraak asked, from his throne. “What needs my attention?”

“Sir. On a routine patrol of the land, we saw something. and it seems like something you would want to know.”

“Hmmm?” Miraak said, as he rose from his seat, “Then lead on.”

* * *

It was two of his men. They were standing by the gates of the castle. They looked tired, and panting from a long run. And they looked as scared and shivering as his guide did.

“My lord!” the one who seemed in charge said, “We… have something to report.”

“And what _is_ it?”

“IT’s a…” One of them pulled something from his satchel. “A Book.”

A book.

Miraak almost gasped in shock.

“A book.” He repeated. “You are _this_ scared from a petty book?”

“My lord!” he protested, “This is no mere book! It has the symbols of the Woodland Man! The Guardian of-“

“Herma-Mora” he said, with a practiced façade of boredom. “I know. And you found one of his books?”

“Aye!” he said, with a look of fear. “It just showed up on our way. Tripped one of the men.”

The other man said in protest “I swear to the Totems and the Dragons both, that thing was not there when I was walking!” he said, tone scared, “it just… materialized. Out of nowhere!”

Miraak looked at the book, and smiled.

Yes. It was more than likely it happened.

He raised an eyebrow.

A Black Book, from all it looked like. nothing like he’d ever seen before. In fact, it looked as if it belonged to another realm. Or possibly at least four thousand years into the future.

He took a deep breath, and said “give that to me.” slowly, he brought his hand forward to take it, “and then, I need you both to go to a healer to inspect you. if this is what I think it is, it’s highly dangerous. Even fatal”

“What” the man said, fear in his tone, “ _is_ that?”

“It’s…” Miraak sighed, “Let’s call this a Black Book. Something from Herma-Mora’s realm. have some of your men scout all the Peninsula, and have our spies to the same for the Mainland. If one of these things appeared here, it’s no coincidence. There are going to be more of them. make sure they’re brought where I _know_ they are.” He warned, and then with a small nod he turned towards the castle.

He had a book to get rid of.

* * *

He didn’t get rid of the book.

Oh. It’s not like he didn’t try.

First, he dropped it in the Fire-place. The Old Fire-place, the flame of which had been going for twenty-five years, before he’d even _become_ Miraak. He dropped the Book in it, and the whole Fire ran out, with weird tentacles (almost like the ones on the book) forming around instead.

Weirded out by the Tentacles, He shivered and walked over to the next room, his own practice room.

And began thinking of different methods of getting rid of the nuisance.

First, he tried a torch. The wood crumbled.  
then he tried using his Flames. He’d depleted his entire magicka pool on the book, using the most scorching hot flames he could ever produce (and Miraak was the greatest mage between the Priests, if he said so himself) and the book was intact, not even a scorch mark on it.

Giving up any other method, Miraak opened a portal to a random realm of oblivion and used a move spell to drop it there.

The Event that followed was, to be a little underestimated, interesting. Everything around him shimmered, and then took a sick Purple glow.

If Miraak wasn’t a professional mage with years of experience and standing, he’d say the Portal _coughed_ the book back.

Miraak shouted in anger and annoyance. “WHY WON’T YOU JUST LEAVE!”

Then….

It hit him.

Something that a person couldn’t get rid of… no matter what he’d try…

Something that would bend _reality_ itself… just so it would stay where it wanted!

There was a magic behind this… and he knew he wanted that.

Nay.

He knew he needed that!

* * *

So, once he’d cleaned the room (read: had two of his cultists clear it out for him), He Stood in front of the book, looking at it.

“You have secrets in you” he said, _talking_ to the book. “And I _want_ those secrets!”

The book didn’t answer him.

.

“I am Mir-Aak, the Third-priest of the Order of Dragon, Show me your secrets!”

.

“In the name of Mir-Aak, Dragonborn, Firstborn of Auri-el and Lord of Raven’s peninsula, reveal your secrets!”

.

“ZU’U MIRAAK, AHRK ZU’U FUN HI KORAAV HIN SULEYKKE!”

.

Finally, Miraak gave up.

“I give up!” he said, panting, as he sat down on the chair, and looked at his mask. “what do you want from me?”

And then, the book shimmered.

Almost as if someone was telling him “what do you _think,_ idiot?”

Miraak groaned, and opened the book.

* * *

To be brief, this was _not_ what he’d expected.

To open the book, and to travel to another realm.

What he _especially_ didn’t expect was to personally visit one of the nine Totems. Again.

Especially not The Woodland Man.

Herma Mora.

He’d sworn he’d leave the Realm.

Perhaps, his spells had got the attention of the Non-us.

“Ah” the Body said, “so the Fabled Third-priest of the Dragon Order Finally Returns”

Miraak looked at him. but he did not say anything.

“Still Not a speaker? Interesting” The Body of tentacles and eyes chuckled. “What do you want here, Mir-Aak?”

“Your magic.” The mage said. “I want your magic.”

“More magic? Is _that_ what you seek, Mortal?”

“Yes. I need magic to control… fate”

“Then you’ve come to the right place. I… am the Lord of the Tides of Fate. But, be aware.” The Body warned. “Such a boon will not go unreturned. I am of need of a Champion.”

Miraak went to his knees.

“Teach me”


	5. Now

“I am telling you, human” the Altmer behind her Stall said, tone completely frustrated, “I am not a jewel-smith. And I can’t appraise it for you, but I cannot, and will not, pay any more than a hundred Septims for each of them”

“No. I delved into an ancient tomb for these” I explained, “There’s no _way_ I’m going to go with a rate _that_ low!”

“well then leave” she said, rolling her eyes. “I’m not ruining my business because you didn’t have the forethought not to delve into an undead infested ruin and desecrate the tombs of your ancestors!”

“That’s-“ I raised my eyebrow, “True. But it’s not the point here. But you’re right” I said, and turned away, starting to walk towards the general goods store, “I suppose I should take my findings and sell them to someone else.” I picked up my backpack, and started walking.

“wait!” The woman said.

I smirked.

Isn’t trading nice?

* * *

“I can’t give you any more than a hundred and fifty for a piece.” She said, after a few minutes of talking, “ _but_ I can, instead, offer you this new traveling pack” she pointed at the traveling back. “they don’t make these in Skyrim. And Normally I’d sell it for a high price. But that many gems will suffice.”

I looked at her. “I have ten pieces of Amethyst, thirty Garnets, a few handfuls gem-stones I don’t even know the name of, and something I highly suspect is a _flawless_ diamond”

Well. I hadn’t found those last few. They were in Stenvar’s satchels.

But he’s not going to use them.

The Woman made a small sound, showing her surprise. “where did you loot to find so many of these-“ she paused, “You know what? no. don’t answer that. By this estimate I must pay you an exact price of five thousand Septims” she looked at me. “Do you have any carts hanging around?”

I gulped.

“ _…_ ” I thought, “no.”

“I am assuming you also don’t have an entire mercenary army to protect you wherever you plan on taking all that money, hmm?”

“…” I sighed. “No.”

She smiled. “Well then. We have two options. One is that you let me keep the money, and I will take from it whenever you buy anything from me”

I shook my head. “Not happening.”

“The _other_ , is a small project that I was asked to see if it can work.” She explained. “And… well… I don’t guarantee if it’s successful.”

I looked at her. “Explain.”

“The Courier service.”

I blinked. “you want couriers to bring me my five thousand Golden Coins.”

“ _goodness_ no!” She laughed. “Send _couriers_ to bring you your gold? What do you take me for? No. What I propose is different.”

I looked at her. “And that… proposal… is?”

“Well. here’s the deal. The Fleet Courier Guild has a Guildhouse near the City of Whiterun. Apart from sending over the letters and goods we ask them, they also do vaulting services.”

“Vaulting?”

“Keeping goods, money, and other objects, in a vault for further use. They take a small fee, and instead they keep your goods secure.”

I looked at her. “A Courier service. Keep my goods secure.”

She shook her head, “Yes. Well, more secure than in a Chest under my stall, or in your house.”

I raised my eyebrow, “Wouldn’t that require me to take my gold to whiterun, then?”

“Er, no.” The Altmer said, “I’m keeping that gold. What _you’ll_ do is to take a letter to their guildhouse, and open a vault there.”

I looked at her. “And what do I have as a garuantee that you aren’t just stealing my coin?”

“Well, if you don’t get your coin, just tell the guards. I’m an elf” she smirked, “Don’t these guards hate me and my kind?”

I sighed. “Give me that paper.”

* * *

The Traveling Pack was a gift.  A godsend.

Putting everything in satchels makes walking really hard, a pack, on the other hand, not so much.

Thankfully, the Headquarters of this Fleet Courier Guild was on my way. And thus, I finally stopped by it.

It didn’t, of course, look anything special. A mere house, like many others.

It was right next to Whiterun’s very own Honningbrew Meadery, though it didn’t seem to be quite as big a property as that. A mere small building, one story, like something you’d see in a village.

But it was the directions the Altmer had given me.

So I walked in.

The inside was not that better than the outsite. It looked like a bloody house. And not even an expensive one at that. Only a few beds, a table, roaring fire and a desk.

 _This_ was the guildhall of the Best Courier Guild in all Skyrim?

“Hello, welcome to Fleet!” a man in normal clothes of a commoner said, with a cheery tone. “How can I help you?”

“I…” I gulped, “I have a letter from Niranye of Windhelm that I was told to bring here.”

The Courier chucked “Normally we’re the ones who do the letter-bringing. But alright, let me see that”

I handed over the letter to him.

He looked at it, his eyes widening as he read, until he put the letter in its envelope and looked at me, “I need you to wait here for a minute.”

The Courier left the building, and I was all alone.

I took a look around, curious to see _where_ they would hold something quite valuable like that.

The only thing even close to a Storage for treasure was a small chest on the wall.

I raised an eyebrow. _Was_ this even a legitimate business?

A minute later, Another Courier opened the door and entered the Hall, sitting on a chair nearby.

“So, You’re the one who wants a new vault, eh?”

I looked at him. “Not exactly. I’d be satisfied with merely receieving the money I’m owed.”

He sneered, “Yes. The letter mentioned that too. I suppose I’ll have to explain. Sit.” He pointed at the chair next to me.

I had my eyebrow still raised. This man was… remarkably rude for a businessman ready to get a new patron.

But alas, I sat. “Well?”

He looked at me. “What I’m about to tell you, only twenty people outside this guild know. For the sake of what you’re hiding here, and us all, I suggest you don’t tell another soul.”

Niranye was in trouble.

“I won’t. believe me.”

He nodded. “Good. Then here’s the deal. Apart from performing Courier duties, this Guild has one other job. We Storage goods, and safekeep them for their owners. The Goods are kept somewhere safe and secure, and only a select number of our couriers are allowed to touch them. The Woman who’s introduced you to us is one of those twenty people.”

I looked at him, “Look. Where does this lead? I just want my money”

“Can you haul Five Grands right now, to wherever you live? This late at night?”

I sighed.

“Then listen. You might be the twenty-first person to buy a Vault here. We’ll storage your gold, and whatever goods you find. In exchange for a small fee per year.”

“How small?”

“Small enough that you won’t notice it, it’ll merely cost you one coin out of every five hundred coins. Per year.”

In other words, ten coins.

Huh. worth it.

I looked at him. “Alright. What do I need to sign?”

* * *

When I was done with the Couriers, it was the strike of night. The first minutes of the next day.

It was dark, though thankfully the Tundra of Whiterun wasn’t quite as cold this south, near Riverwood.

Our Family had lived here for a long time. The Line of my forefathers, well the Nordic ones, had populated here right after the War had stopped, taking refuge close enough to Ysgramor’s ship that He’d hear them if they shouted.

From what my Father had told me when he was still alive, we had used to have a castle around here, but that had been lost, and then demolished, at least an era ago, in the time of Talos. The only thing remaining from that time was one ruin that actually stood not ever a stone-throw of our home.

My Family have been Farmers, miners and lumberjacks for generations. Every once in a while, one of us grows enough guts to learn swinging a sword (like my father).

Those who like magic are even less common.

I had been the first in five generations of our family to even care about books.

We didn’t have the luxury of caring about these things.

I finally reached the door of The House, too tired to knock, and opened it.

The house was quiet. As it had been for years now.

I sat on a chair, pulling the Bag off my back and putting it on the table. Mother would make a debacle for it, but I was too tired to care.

I finally twisted and turned enough to be in front of the fire of the house, warming myself and putting my cloak and fur out to dry.

It was time to sleep.

I rose, and then I noticed mother had returned from the Inn earlier and was sleeping on the Bed.

Not caring to wake her up, I pulled a bedroll from under the bed, and fell on it.

That Night, I slept, dreaming of shades screeching, Men burning, and tombs of gold.

* * *

“Fenrir” I heard a voice, as I swept through in the voids of eternity. “FENRIR!”

My eyes opened automatically.

I was in a bedroll in my own home.

A woman was looking at me, hands to her sides and eyes hard.

My mother.

“Where in oblivion have you been these past few days?”

“I told you, mother” I sighed, “I was gone to Windhelm for a trip”

That, apparently, was the wrong thing to say.

She grabbed my ear, twisting it as she forced me to my feet, and then dragged me to the table, where the bag was still there.

By The Bear. I _knew_ I’d missed something!

“Gone to a trip, were you?” she asked me, snipping, “was it enjoyable? Did you rest well?”

I gulped. “Yes, mother. The Air is colder and more pleasant up north. And the people are _just_ the warmest you’ll ever meet.”

She looked at me with a deadpan look.

Okay. This was the worst lie I’ve ever told.

“Stop lying, Fenrir.” She said, tone frosty, “It wasn’t attractive when you started years ago. it’s not any more attractive now. I know you weren’t in Windhelm for a trip.”

I blinked. “ _how_?”

“Because nobody goes to a city such as Windhelm for a pleasant trip.” She sniped, “and even if they had, they wouldn’t bring-“ She paused. “What _is_ in that pack? And since when do you have a pack?” she opened the pack, and the Helmet fell out of it.

“Dammit Fenrir!” She said, “An Ancient Nordic Helm?”

“That’s not an ancient Nordic helm, mother” I said, unable to stop myself from boasting, “That… is The Helm of Yngol himself!”

 “Helm. Of Yngol?” she asked me, looking angry and frustrated. “You _found the_ -“ she gasped.

“Did you fall into any traps while there?”

“No, actually” I said, not believing it personally, “The Entire tomb was deserted, and relatively trap-less. I didn’t even get hurt. Well, aside from that small headache.”

“Small Headache?” she asked me, tone scared. “ _a small headache?_ ”

“Yes” I said, “Why is it so-“

“That can _not_ be a coincidence!” she said to herself, tone a little bit terrified. “Oh no. no-no-no-no-no-“

“Mother?” I asked her, a little worried now. “What’s not a coincidence?”

“The Headache!” she snapped, “Your father said he got one when he found that bloody freaking sword of his!”

I gulped.

That Sword was the last thing my father looted in a combat.

A Few weeks later, he went blind. And a few weeks afterward, he passed away, out of nowhere.

I blinked. “I never knew he-“

“Ulf didn’t tell you everything, Fenrir!” he said, almost hyperventilating. “Look. I need you to do something. I’d do It myself, but I am _not_ strong enough at my age.”

I looked at her. “What?”

“The Old Ruin” She pointed at it, from the window. “You need to enter it.”

“Enter the Haunted Tomb?” I said, almost shocked. “You said I shouldn’t even-“

“Yes. But things are different now. That ruin was the laboratory and final resting place of your great times seven Grandfather, Seidrmann”

Ah yes. The only famous mage of our family. And he wasn’t famous for good things either.

“And-“

“He was a known scholar. He wrote all kinds of journal. I need you to enter his tomb, and find his Five Volumes of his Journal, and bring them here.”

“Now?”

She nodded. “As soon as you can.”

I gulped.

I had some tihngs to do first.

I walked out of the house, to my own shed.

Some of the stuff in this shed might have made the people of Riverwood hunt me with pitchforks if they weren’t so good a people.

I had my own place here: a small library, and a small place to practice my spells.

Fortunately, nothing here needed my attention. The Potion I was making was due a few days, and the Equipment were all in shape. All I had to do was to finally enter the old Ruin.

The Tomb of Seidrmann, the Cruel nightmare of Riverwood.


End file.
